


Deliverer

by spaceliquid



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Autobot victory, Discrimination, Gen, Post-War, Rebirth AU, and a lot of blasphemy, dystopic future
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-01
Updated: 2018-10-21
Packaged: 2019-07-05 11:29:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15862719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spaceliquid/pseuds/spaceliquid
Summary: Many years have passed since the Great War, and there are laws in place to keep the peace. One day an Autobot and a Decepticon break the law by saving the life of a sparkling.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, dear readers!  
> I am happy to welcome you to a new story. This one has been known as "Babytron AU" among my friends. While it is mostly based on Transformers: Prime (backstory and designs), I also used ideas from other continuities, like G1 or IDW. 
> 
> Dedicated to Clocktimustime, who came up with the term "Babytron", and to Pollution, who has been giving me first feedback.

Lamps in this part of the city were always flickering, but First Aid didn't need light to find his way home – he drove down these streets every day. Although today he was walking instead of driving: he needed to clear his head. Another day of battling for funding; those always left him in a bitter mood. He couldn't even call it rage – it wasn't. Sometimes he wished he could rage like late Ratchet did during such hearings, but First Aid's anger usually manifested as quiet, helpless resignation.

Oh well. He'd just have to find more time to treat private patients then. Good thing he still had his reputation of a great medic: even though he was considered an oddball, he still got his share of rich clientele. But that meant he needed money to rent that ward in Central Tarn, since none of the important patients would want to be treated in First Aid's public clinic in the Abjectus district.

Which wasn't a bad place, really. Abjectus was no slum – Tarn had seedier places, and all those rich mechs probably haven't even been to Kaon. Yeah, it wasn't recommended to walk here alone in the night, but First Aid didn't expect such foolishness from any of his richer patients.

 _He_ walked here alone in the night, but it was a different story. First Aid was a veteran of the Great War, one of the few that were still left, and old he may be, but his hand was as used to holding a gun as it was to holding a scalpel. Besides, people here _knew_ him – and knew that they could get treatment in his clinic.

First Aid shook his head in answer to his thoughts. Oh, Optimus, if only you were alive... You'd be so disappointed. But Optimus was dead, sacrificed himself to reignite the Well of the Allsparks. Optimus ended the war, the Autobots stood victorious, and a new bright future was open to them.

Not to all of them, apparently. In this bright future First Aid had to battle for the right to keep his clinic open to everyone, regardless of their wealth and family history. In this bright future mechs had to creep into his clinic in the dead of the night, because they couldn't leave their day jobs even for something as trivial as a check-up.

First Aid was so immersed in his dreary mulling, that at first he didn't notice a foreign sound. But then it came again, and medic's programming activated, reacting to the clear signal of distress. First Aid stopped and looked around.

There it was again – a faint whimpering beep. Basic binary code, devoid of meaning except for generic expression of anguish. First Aid adjusted his sensors, and they led him to the source of the beeps – a dark alleyway between two close-standing buildings.

First Aid carefully maneuvered around a reeking pile of trash, scanning the alleyway's dirty floor. Something moved to his right, and First Aid squatted next to a rusty half-broken container.

There, on the remnants of a filthy piece of mesh, lay something small and wiggling; it took First Aid several seconds to realize it wasn't a mechanimal, but rather a sparkling. It shivered and made weak, desperate beeps, obviously incapable of any louder sounds anymore.

First Aid bit his lip as he did a quick scan on the sparkling. It was covered in rust, dirt and some indecipherable liquids, its vents were wheezy and raspy, and it seemed like it was lying here for more than a day. Too large, too developed to be a newborn – probably the only reason it survived on the street long enough to reach this sorry condition. But there seemed to be no open injuries that could've prevented moving it.

Without hesitation, First Aid picked up the sparkling, ignoring the filth staining his plating. The sparkling let out a series of panicked sounds, but as soon as First Aid's EM field washed over it in soothing waves, the sparkling calmed down – and finally managed to open its optics.

Red. First Aid sighed in understanding. He pressed the sparkling to his chest, letting the purr of his engine lull it, and hurried to his clinic.

Tarn was what was called a "mixed" city. It was inhabited by both first- and second-class citizens – or rather, Autobots and former Decepticons. Although the separation was still clear: Autobots mostly lived in the center, while the Decepticons populated the outskirts. Inter-faction couples were a rarity, but here in Tarn there were more of them than in "single-faction" cities like Iacon or Kaon.

Unfortunately, these couples couldn't predict what their children would look like. And First Aid observed this picture all too often: a mixed family walking down the street, all their children strangely blue-opticed civilian frames, while corpses of red-opticed newborns were often found in the dark alleyways such as this one.

First Aid could see the parents' perspective, he supposed. Those who looked like Autobots had a better chance of success in life, even if one of their progenitors was a red-opticed second-class citizen. First Aid also was aware that inter-faction bonds were legally considered an "integration measure", with the first-class mate having authority over the second-class mate. Even if the Decepticon parent wanted to keep their sparkling, they offically had no say in it.

But this one – this sparkling was old enough to have rudimentary armor. First Aid could feel the solid plates under his hands as he carried the little frame. Perhaps this sparkling's parent fought for it, and First Aid mentally sent his condolences to the unknown sire or carrier. He wished he could somehow tell them that their fight would not be in vain.

***

The clinic welcomed First Aid with warm yellow light and the peaceful sounds of the night hospital. First Aid thanked his assistant for waiting and listened to his short report (nothing significant happened while First Aid was away, all patients were stable) as he was preparing a solvent bath for the sparkling and an examination table. But when First Aid started carefully washing the caked dirt and rust off the sparkling, he paused – and then promptly sent his assistant home.

"Go recharge," he said. "I'm not tired, I will take care of the sparkling myself. Don't worry."

Only when the other mech left the clinic did First Aid return to washing his foundling. His lips were tightened in a firm line, and spark was pounding.

After the bath, First Aid made all the preventory shots, coated the rusty parts in disinfectory gel and fueled the sparkling up (through the auxhiliary port, since somewhere in between the procedures the bitlet fell asleep). And then First Aid sat on a chair, hunched with his arms crossed on his lap, and stared at the recharging sparkling.

Now that it was clean, its plating and frame were clearly visible – and terribly, menacingly obvious. Those shoulder spikes, those broad chassis and that helm shape.

The sparkling was a tiny copy of Megatron.

Which meant that, if First Aid was a good, law-abiding citizen, his duty was to snuff the bitlet's spark right away.

***

Soon after the war's end, after the Well of the Allsparks was reignited, it became clear that repopulating Cybertron with sparks appearing out of the Well would be too long a process, as the newspark bursts were rare. In order to speed up the population growth, the Autobot Council, which took the mantle or ruler after Optimus Prime passed away, encouraged the usage of procreation protocols – an emergency mechanism almost forgotten during the war. It was tedious and dangerous, but in the time of peace it boosted Cybertron's dwindling population. 

However, as more and more sparklings appeared, bots started claiming that some sparks extinguished during the war returned. Not once or twice a war veteran „recognized“ their old acquaintance in one of the children running around. Of course, these children remembered nothing of their old life, but the effect remained. First Aid personally thought it was a superstition, but it gave many mechs hope – and also caused quite a lot of fear.

For among the casualities of war was the one mech that started it all – Megatron of Tarn. 

The fragile new peace was precious, and nobody wanted to go back to war – and so the Council came up with a decree. For the sake of peace and the lives of all children of Cybertron, whenever a spark that bore Megatron's frame appeared, it had to be reported and extinguished in a quick and painless manner. Disobedience or attempts to hide the reborn tyrant would be punished severely.

First Aid personally has always considered this decree barbaric. First of all, killing innocent sparklings was never alright. And second, even if he were to suppose that sparks _could_ come back,  he didn't really believe that Megatron could be reborn – not after his experiments with Dark Energon. Not every spark had to return – after all, Optimus hadn't returned so far. Even if they were to justify the decree and assume that Megatron was indeed reborn once or twice, the amount of sparklings killed according to the decree was much higher, and many of the victims were just unlucky to resemble Megatron.

Like this poor thing. First Aid cast a compassionate glance at the sleeping form. The sparkling's parents didn't kill it, they just took it out to the streets; they probably did love it, at least somewhat. They probably intended to raise the sparkling – right until they saw that raising it would be illegal. And even then they left the killing part to somebody else.

This "somebody else" now being First Aid, apparently.

First Aid shuddered when this thought presented itself to him in all its ugly clarity. Kill this child; kill it for the only fault of looking like a long-dead warlord.

No. Whatever those high and mighty Councilors wrote in their decrees, First Aid would not do it. He didn't agree with many things the Councilors did – like separating their society in first-class victors and second-class defeated, like putting a quota on how many patients medics could treat for free, like forbidding certain jobs and education to those of "unreliable heritage", like spitting on all Optimus and real Autobots fought for... But he learned to live with it. Learned to work around it.

But this? This time First Aid wasn't going to follow the law.

He reached out for his old wartime communicator, opened a comm frequency that Cybertronians haven't been using for ages, and called a familiar ID.

"Barricade? Yes, this is First Aid. I need you to come to my clinic. It is time for your check-up."

***

Barricade appeared in the clinic in two days. He walked through the doors in the evening, brushing road dust off his shoulders. First Aid smiled at the sight of his old... friend? Yes, by now he could probably call Barricade this.

They both were approximately the same age, both born during the late stages of the war from the last spark busrt of the Well, before it went completely dark. And now they both were among the oldest mechs on Cyberton, and among the few veterans who were still alive.

Of course, Barricade looked much more worn-out. First Aid always felt a twinge of guilt every time he saw his friend's scuffed plating and heard the creak of the joints. He offered Barricade medical treatment as often as he could, and even offered him a job of a guard at the clinic (not that he needed one), but Barricade refused to leave his home city of Kaon. "Too much paperwork", he used to say, which was partially true – for a second-class citizen it was difficult to get a permission to move out of the city where they were registered. But First Aid suspected that Barricade simply didn't want to leave his people.

"Well?" Barricade asked, glancing around to ensure they were alone. "What's the 'check-up' all about?"

"Come with me." First Aid gestured to the stairs leading up to the first floor.

They walked past the line of ward doors, First Aid leading his guest deeper into the clinic – right to the quarantine chamber. He kept the sparkling there to avoid anyone seeing it, even shooing his assistants away. He input the code on the panel on the wall, and the door swooshed open.

When Barricade saw the sleeping sparkling, his vents hitched. He stopped next to the crib, then sighed heavily, and finally uttered:

"I see."

"I cannot kill him." First Aid walked around the crib and stopped at its head, watching the quietly snoozing sparkling. "This child hasn't done anything. I found him abandoned on the streets, and I will not let him die just because he has Megatron's frametype."

"The resemblance is... uncanny," Barricade said carefully.

"Oh come on, don't tell me you believe this nonsense!" Fisrt Aid crossed his arms. "This is just a child that simply happens to look like Megatron! And for that it will be prosecuted and sentenced to death. I will not allow it. So here is my idea." Firts Aid activated a holographic screen and turned it to Barricade. "I will make him fake armor – some kibble, a visor, additional panels – something that will allow him to move around freely but will conceal his real frame. And then," he caught Barricade's gaze, "I want you to take him to Kaon. He will never be safe here – too many Autobots around, too much attention on anyone with Decepticon heritage. But in Kaon he would be easily lost in the crowd." First Aid's voice softened. "I know it is much to ask, but I'm begging you. You are the only one whom I trust with hiding him."

Barricade held his gaze for a while, and then chuckled.

"Never did I expect to become a parent at such an old age." He nodded, placing his hand on the crib. "Sure, I'll take him. But the life in Kaon will not be easy."

"I know." First Aid nodded solemnly. "But it's better than no life at all. Thank you, Barricade."

"Don't mention it." Barricade rolled his shoulders with a loud crack. "Although we will have to visit you now and then to modify the fake armor. Little runts grow very fast."

"Of course." Only now did tension begin to leave First Aid; only now did he start to fully realize that his crazy plan was accepted and the sparkling was saved. "Primus, of course." He leaned on the table next to the crib, covering his face.

"Hey, hey." Barricade stepped closer and put a hand on his shoulder awkwardly. "Don't worry. Nobody cares for another second-class sparkling in Kaon. The runt will be fine." He made a pause. "You did the right thing, First Aid. Frag, you're probably the last decent Autobot on this planet."

"Thank you." First Aid finally found enough courage to take his hands off his face – but not before he quickly wiped his optics. "I'll... get to work on those fakes. And you're probably tired after the drive, you go hit the washrack, I prepared you a berth in the small ward."

Between them, in the crib, the source of all this conflict and worry was sleeping peacefully, unaware of the danger that had just released its claws on him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, this is the first time I'm writing gen. Ever.
> 
> [This story has a fanart!](http://pollution-of-subterranean-waters.tumblr.com/post/175992999474/late-birthday-gift-for-darklordofcutlets-its) By wonderful and talented pollution-of-subterranian-waters.


	2. Veni, Veni, Emmanuel

Aeon’s day begins early, when Barricade starts walking around their small home, preparing for work. The rattling of their old energon dispenser is the sound that sings “home” to Aeon; he wakes up, knowing that, as always, he'll see his caretaker at the wall, doing exercises to flex his old joints.

Their apartment is just one room, located at the ground floor of a three-story-high barrack — one of the buildings from the first post-war wave of houses that were supposed to be temporary, until better homes were built. But many vorns passed since the end of the war, and the barracks were still standing. „Decepticon engineering”, Barricade likes to say with pride, patting the worn-out wall. Aeon doesn't mind – he thinks their home is pretty cozy.

He gets off his berth and picks up a toolkit that always lies on a bedside shelf. He checks the hidden locks on his fake armor – one of the earliest actions he learned, even before he started doing processor defrags on his own. It has become such a habit that Aeon doesn't even realize most of the time that the fake armor isn't a real part of him. It is not surprising, really: after all, he sees himself without it only once or twice a vorn, when they visit Uncle First Aid in Tarn. Aeon is more used to what he sees in the mirror every day: black and blue paint, a visor covering half of his face, blocky shoulder pads and a pair of tracks on his shins. The tracks at least are real; Aeon can't transform yet, so it doesn't matter, but Uncle Aid promised to come up with some mods to hide his altmode when the time will come for Aeon to get an adult frame.

The morning ritual is finished right when the dispenser rings, signaling that their portion of energon is refined. In the next second Aeon is on his stool at the table, swaying his legs impatiently.

Barricade smiles as he tosses Aeon his cube and watches him devour it in half a klik.

“You bottomless pit,” he says, but his voice is full of warmth. Aeon grins at him and jumps off the stool. It's time for school.

They leave their home at the same time – along with some other inhabitants of the barrack. Barricade greets them, and they head to the factory where they all work. Barricade is the oldest in their company; Aeon notices how withered his plating looks compared to the others'. Most bots of Barricade's age don't do heavy manual work anymore; they watch over sparklings like Overdrive the transport, or beg in the streets like lame Stonebuster.

Aeon waves at Stonebuster as he hurries by the street corner where the old mech always sits. Stonebuster hasn't picked up his ten-strings yet – he doesn't play music so early in the morning, when bots only care about getting to work on time. Some kind spark still threw a couple of shanix in the cup – perhaps after seeing Stonebuster's maimed legs. Aeon still doesn't know what happened to the mech; Stonebuster tells a different story every time.

The school building is newer and better than Aeon's house; it's painted bright orange, which looks out of place in Kaon. But Aeon thinks it's fitting, and it helps him adjust his mind.

There are two worlds Aeon knows. One is the world of his home: the world of Barricade and Stonebuster, of rusty streets and dim lights, of rattling energon dispenser and bedtime stories. The other one is the world of school: the world of bright lights and clean walls and a large Autobot symbol above the holographic blackboard.

“You must be careful with them, Aeon,” Barricade always says. “Learn well and tell them what they want to hear. Never speak what you are really thinking; don't give them a single reason to suspect you. They will feed you lies and try to turn you into one of them; so pretend you already are one. Or they will come after you, Aeon, and after me, and after everything you hold dear.”

And Aeon is careful. He is one of the best pupils in the school, and their teacher – a lanky jittery mech with an Autobot badge – seems to like him. Aeon listens to the teacher, and reads his books, and recites the truths they are taught with conviction that feels real even to him – as long as he is in school.

_What is the Victory Day? - The day when the remnants of Decepticon aggressors surrendered to Optimus Prime after their crushing defeat._

_How many solar cycles is there in a vorn? - 87_

_Who is Megatron? - The greatest war criminal in history, the mech who started the Great War and destroyed Cybertron._

_Where is the tomb of Optimus Prime?_ _\- In the Temple of the Allspark next to the Well._

_Who rules Cyberton? - The Senate and the Council of Elders, a fair democratic body that vowed to oppose tyranny; they keep peace on Cybertron and help reintegrate unreliable citizens into society._

Aeon learns well, and answers correctly, and the teacher tells him one day that he has a chance to get a certificate of reliability and the right to apply for a university.

“Thank you,” Aeon says, an image of modesty and gratitude, “but I want to work at the factory, like my caretaker.”

(„Be a good student, but don't stand out; attracting their attention is death. You must never let them learn you secret!” Barricade always said.)

The teacher shakes his head, but doesn't push; he is not very fond of his job, after all, for putting too much effort into beating some sense into wild second-class sparklings who don't know what's good for them. The teacher is dissatisfied with his assignment to Kaon and sends petition after petition to the Ministry of Education, asking for a relocation. Kaon's weather is bad for his delicate plating.

“Are you stupid?” Aeon's classmate, a little speedster, asks. “You could go to university! To Iacon! Live like a first-class citizen!”

“But I would still be second-class,” Aeon answers quietly. “And so will Barricade.”

The speedster snorts and storms away, an air of superiority around him. He is the best pupil in their class. Other classmates stay with Aeon, though; most of them are here for free energon at lunch.

But the school ends, and Aeon's mask falls off, like his fake armor falls off when Uncle Aid opens the locks. He is back to the world he knows, the one that is real. Most of the sparklings' caretakers are still at work, so old Overdrive comes to pick them up. Not all of them stay, though: the speedster doesn't want to join and leaves to study his books; and the Seeker twins leave too – they have to help their carrier with work (he's a courier, and the twins deliver smaller packages). Aeon stays; in fact, he can't wait for what is coming next.

Overdrive takes the unruly bunch of sparklings to his home. It is in a former barrack too, but Overdrive has two smaller rooms instead of one. The sparklings hurry to the second room and settle down in front of the wall that they know has a fake panel. After the long day of learning humiliating truths at school, they are ready for a different kind of truths.

Overdrive draws the fake panel to the side, and opens a picture painted on the wall behind it. There are purple towers of Kaon there, and they are surrounded in flames. Mechs with red badges are running away, while other mechs are raising a flag over the city – a flag with an angular purple emblem. And in the middle a giant figure lies on the ground, fallen; a mech is standing on its chest, raising a cannon in triumph. This mech's armor is glimmering silvery grey, his stance proud.

Aeon heard this story many times, but he never tires of it.

“..and with the last blast of his mighty cannon, Megatron toppled the enormous creature. Even Omega Supreme couldn't stand before him, for Megatron wasn't driven by greed or lust for power; no, he fought for the freedom of his people, and this determination helped him crush the Autobots. He liberated Kaon, turning it into the first free city on Cybertron, and his troops proclaimed him their Lord right at the battlefield.”

Aeon puts his chin in his hands and stares at the fresco. As he listens to the story, the picture on the wall seems to be moving, showing him the epic battle between the brave hero and the Autobot monster. Aeon imagines himself there, standing next to Megatron – winning freedom and riches for himself and his caretaker. He doodles a Decepticon symbol in his datapad; although it was taken down from every surface in Kaon, and no mech is allowed to wear it anymore, Aeon could draw it with his optics shut. He'd have it on his chest, like Megatron, or maybe on the shoulders, like Barricade used to...

“This is not true,” the youngest of the sparklings says, crossing her arms. Her lips are pouty. “It didn't happen. The Autobots won.”

Overdrive doesn't even get angry – he flails his arms.

“Of course it happened,” he says, red optics flaring. “ It happened here, in this very city. I can show you the cliff where Megatron fought Omega Supreme, and the place where the Grand Arena was. The Autobots built a park over it, thinking that we'll forget. But we will always remember! And Megatron did deliver us from the shackles if the Autobot Golden Age. Only after he fell in battle with Optimus Prime, did the Autobots manage to win.” Overdrive's face darkens. “They are still afraid of us – this is why they push us to our knees, hoping we forget how to stand upright. And they are still afraid of Lord Megatron – this is why they snuff every spark that could belong to him.”

Aeon shuffles uncomfortably, but Overdrive doesn't notice. Instead, he sits down next to the sparklings and smiles, putting his hands on the shoulders of those closes to him.

“But their yoke will not be eternal,” he says, optics shining brightly. “One day they will slip, and Lord Megatron will return. He will lead us out of this pit, lead us to victory – and once more our banner will rise over Kaon.”

Aeon's spark flutters at this promise, just like everyone else's, and for a moment he allows himself to hope and believe. One day the real Lord Megatron will return – and then Aeon wouldn't have to wear his fake armor, for nobody would take him for the real thing.

Overdrive tells them other stories too – of how the Primes of old ruled Cybertron with an iron fist, of the first days of the Great Uprising, of the devastating battles fought on many worlds. Aeon listens with his mouth agape, hungry for the glimmer of past glory, for grand adventures and heroic deeds. In his schoolbooks it's the Autobots who win great victories, and Aeon's own kind are evil monsters. But in Overdrive's tales the Decepticons are the heroes, brave and strong and ruling half of the galaxy. Aeon wishes he had books with these stories, but they are forbidden to write down. This is the only way second-class bots can share them.

But sometimes Overdrive doesn't feel well – his ventilation system is damaged, and when the air in Kaon becomes too thick with fog, his filters clog and he starts overheating. In such days it's Starblast that comes to pick them up.

Starblast is a Seeker femme with a hunched back and a raspy voice. Aeon doesn't like her; there is something mad in the feverish glint of her optics. Even when she says things that should've been nice, her words are dripping venom. She lives in a small house behind a waste disposal unit; it is dark and crammed with old parts and armor pieces. Starblast is a scavenger: she roams the streets of Kaon at night, finishing those poor spark who are too weak to find their way out, and strips their frames of all that can be reused.

The sparklings are quiet when they are in her house, instinctively keeping close to each other. They sit on the floor as Starblast paces in front of them and tells them stories of her own.

She has a picture on her wall too – painted on a piece of metal that she can take off and hide when necessary. It is an image of Megatron, but this one is different: the Decepticon lord is standing on a battlefield littered with corpses; his face is contorted in a snarl, showing sharp dental plates, and in his clawed hand he holds the severed head of Optimus Prime, whose broken body lies under Megatron's feet.

“Cybertron looked purple from orbit, so much energon was spilled during the Battle of Simanzi,” Starblast tells them, and her claws flex, as if ready to tear into her prey. “And Lord Megatron cut his way through Autobot forces like a beast, killing them with gunfire, claws and fangs. Nobody could stop him, and nobody could stop us!”

Aeon hates going to Starblast's house. He prefers the noble hero Megatron, and this beastly Megatron scares him. He ex-vents in relief when the lesson time is over, and runs out of the house ahead of the crowd of his classmates.

It's evening, and the cold blue metal of the buildings is warmed by the golden light of setting sun. Barricade's shift isn't over yet, so Aeon doesn't hurry home. He joins his classmates, chasing them around and play-wrestling with them in the dust in their reenactments of the stories they've just heard. The first fight is usually to determine the roles – nobody wants to be Autobots.

They run past an enforcer while they play – today it's the big red one. Aeon finds him the best, because he has a soft spot for sparklings. Sometimes he even gives them some energon goodies. And now he doesn't even yell at them, just watches lazily as they rush by.

Their Oriens district is lucky – they have a deal with the captain of the precinct. The district's citizens pay him a fee, and the enforcers mostly leave them alone. Aeon is proud – it was Barricade who arranged the deal. His caretaker is so smart! He used to be an enforcer himself during the war, finding and punishing those soldiers who hurt and stole from each other instead of the enemies. Bots still come to him when they need their conflicts solved – nobody wants to involve the Autobot enforcers.

The Autobot world has laws, but Aeon's world has its own.

They gotta be careful around enforcers, Aeon knows it. The red one is okay, but there is a blue two-wheeler who always sniffs around for hidden weapons, and the worst of all is the traitor: his plating is offensively purple, and although his optics are blue, everyone knows his carrier was second-class. Nobody talks to the traitor, the one who joined the enforcers. Aeon always makes sure to hold his head high when he passes by; he might be second-class, but he stays true to his people!

Sometimes they play until dark, but sometimes the company breaks up earlier, and Aeon is left to his own devices. He wanders around, greeting familiar bots and watching those whose faces are new in Oriens. He keeps to the big streets, though; he knows that the dark alleyways are where familiar Kaon ends and scary Kaon starts: the city of Syk dealers, buymechs and scavengers.

Starblast took them there once. She strode into an alleyway, sparklings huddled together behind her back, and led them to a niche between two houses. There was a mech there, lying on the ground. He twitched when Starblast aimed her flashlight at him; a trail of green fluid was dribbling from the corner of his mouth.

“This is what a Syk sucker looks like,” Starblast stated. “Mechs like this are my prey. So think twice before you try this stuff, or you will end up in parts in my storage.”

Then she took them deeper into the alley, to a dumpster that reeked of rust and acid.

“And this,” she said, kicking a small rusty skeleton stripped of all armor and protometal, “is what happens to dumb sparklings who wander in here. I'm sure you're smart, though,” she added, baring her fangs in a fake smile.

Aeon never goes into alleyways. He sees people who do, though: mechs and femmes with fearful optics, scanning the street like they are being chased, before disappearing in a side street; young bots with cheap bright paintjobs, leaning on the walls at crossroads and waving at passersby; groups of big bots, their armor full of kibble that might or might not contain hidden weapons. Some of them even _live_ there, and Aeon is both scared of and sorry for them. He watches them all, but doesn't follow.

He usually ends up next to the corner where Stonebuster resides. Today he is signing a popular song called _Polyhexian Romance_. It could only be a request from someone – and Aeon spots the couple in question right away. They look polished and wealthy, and they listen to Stonebuster with leisure curiosity. There is a certain type of Autobot travelers that are attracted to cities like Kaon – those who want to see “Decepticon culture” and get some thrills by visiting “seedy” places. They are harmless, they look around and make pictures and even pay for a guide's services – but their stares make Aeon cringe. He can sense superiority in these gazes, and he doesn't want to be seen like some curiosity to entertain idle first-class bots.

Stonebuster finishes the song, and the visitors give him a handful of shanix. The old mech thanks them in lengthy phrases, but as soon as the Autobot couple leaves, Stonebuster winces.

“Tourists,” he spats, but hides the shanix in his subspace with the speed no one would expect from a rusty crippled mech. “Well, little Aeon? Defeated many enemies today?”

“I kicked Shovel's aft,” Aeon says with a grin. Shovel is one hulk of a sparkling, a future excavator.

“Well, that's a warrior in making. Now come here, kid, help me up.”

Aeon does as he's asked, putting Stonebuster's arm around his neck and serving as a support for the old mech as he struggles to his damaged legs. Although he's not the biggest among his peers, Aeon is very strong for his age.

He continues to hold Stonebuster upright as they walk down the street towards the bar. Its owner, a femme named Bristle, nods at them as they enter, and sends an energon cube to Stonebuster as soon as he sits down in the corner.

Shifts at construction sites are already over, and the bar quickly fills with bots. They talk loudly, complaining about their supervisors, throwing jokes at each other and cursing. Aeon shifts on his stool; he doesn't quite like the rough voices, but it's warm and light, and he feels very grown-up and serious here, in the midst of adult talks. Besides, sometimes he gets energon for free.

Stonebuster finishes his cube and puts it aside, picking up his ten-string. He starts pinching the strings experimentally, playing a simple melody. It is soft for now, and it gets lost in the clutter of the bar. But soon the melody gains strength, begins to compete with other sounds, and one by one the voices subside, giving way to the music. The ten-string laments under Stonebuster's deceptively thick fingers, and this melody is very different from the lighthearted romance he sang before the tourists.

 _Flickering, our hope glows  
__With the dying spark of a child  
__For us you are born, our lord,  
__And for us you are killed once more._  

 _Come back to us, o lord of devastated land,  
__Of all who are forgotten and oppressed,  
__Come and deliver us again._  

The faint murmur of voices die out; everyone is listening now, not looking at Stonebuster but staring into their cups. Nobody joins Stonebuster's singing, but they listen, and Aeon bites his lip, frowning under his visor. He doesn't like this song; it is about hope, but all Aeon feels is despair.

 _Look at your people, our lord,_  
_Broken and forced to our knees._  
_In shadows and toil we weep,  
_ _Waiting for you to return._

 _Come back to us, o lord of devastated land,_  
_Of all who are forgotten and oppressed,  
_ _Come and deliver us again._

Aeon studies solemn faces around him, and it scares him, this unspoken unity. What salvation is there in relying on a long-dead mech? This is what Uncle Aid always says, that Megatron being reborn is a myth. The Autobots believe in it, but the Decepticons could be smarter, Aeon thinks. They cannot hope that a dead mech will come back and save them!

The song ends, and the bar is engulfed in silence, only disturbed by the lament of Stonebuster's ten-string. But then one of the taller workers smashes his cube on the table and yells:

“Come on, enough of this wailing! Stonebuster, give us a good one!”

“Play _My Aim Is True_!” someone else shouts.

“No, _The Purple Sky_!”

“Pur-ple-sky! Pur-ple-sky!”

And Stonebuster hits his strings, and the whole bar roars with him:

 _I_ _was born in Kaon's slums  
__Under purple sky,  
__And with my brothers forth I marched,  
__Our banners high._

 _They tried to pin us down and break_  
_But our squad stood strong_  
_And we shall see the purple sky  
_ _All over Cybertron!_

And Aeon sings with them – or rather yells, for singing quickly turns into a contest of who can shout louder. Workers drum the rhythm by hitting their cubes on the table, and Stonebuster's music can barely be heard, but Aeon's spark is dancing in his chest and his head spins with energon rush.

They are singing another song when the door opens and Barricade walks in, along with a couple of his co-workers. The shift at the factory is over.

Barricade scans the room, his face stern, and the lyrics get stuck in Aeon's throat as soon as he sees his caretaker. He knows Barricade doesn't approve.

Of course, Barricade doesn't say anything here. He walks through the rowdy crowd, and most of them stop singing too when they see him. They greet Barricade with respect, some even saluting awkwardly; they all were born after the war, Stonebuster included. Barricade is the one who fought.

Barricade nods to them, exchanges a couple of words with some of the patrons, but continues to make a beeline for Aeon.

„I'll be taking my sparkling,” he says, taking Aeon's hand. “Thank you for looking after him, Stonebuster.”

The old mech nods, and Barricade leads Aeon out of the bar.

They walk through night Kaon, the chatter of bots and the dim purple lights surrounding them in a nice, familiar bubble. Kaon never sleeps, but Aeon enjoys these late hours in the city, when night shift workers are already at their stations, and day shift mechs are doing their freetime activities – some gamble, some get drunk, some laugh and chat with each other, some do improvised pit fights. With his caretaker Aeon feels safe.

The sky over Kaon is usually covered with fog from the city's many industrial plants. In the night lights reflect off the fog above, coloring the sky soft purple – and it's easy for Aeon to imagine that it's Kaon in its days of glory, and tomorrow they are going to fight the Autobots for their freedom. He even starts to skip a little as they walk, but then Barricade's dulled claws squeeze around his hand, and Aeon is brought back to reality.

“Aeon,” Barricade starts, and Aeon's armor clamps down already. His fake shell is attached to his real armor, making it flexible, so it moves too, betraying his shame. “How many times did we speak about bars and sparklings?”

“I'm sorry, Caretaker.” Aeon stares at his feet. He hates moments like this. “I was just helping Stonebuster...”

“Well Stonebuster should know better!” Barricade snaps, and Aeon droops his shoulders even more. He doesn't want to get Stonebuster into trouble. Nobody wants a war veteran to be disappointed in them.

“I'm sorry,” Aeon repeats. “I wasn't... I won't go there again.” And for this moment Aeon actually believes his own words.

He hears Barricade sigh, and suddenly his caretaker pulls him into an empty side-street and goes down on one knee in front of him.

“Aeon,” Barricade says, and this time Aeon can't avoid meeting his optics. “It's not just about you going into a bar – although a bar is no place for a sparkling. But _you_ – you of all sparklings should be extra careful! What if someone hurt you by accident? What if they damaged your armor?”

Oh, it was about his fake armor again. Aeon huffed, puffing his lips.

“It's always about the armor. I'm careful, caretaker! I'm not a child, I know what is dangerous.”

“Aeon, be serious.” Barricade grabs his shoulders and forces Aeon to look at him. “These mechs bring Megatron up more often than their own mates! Don't tempt fate.”

“But I like the songs they sing,” Aeon says quietly. Barricade's face twitches, but Aeon cannot tell what it means.

“Better not mention it to First Aid,” he says dryly and stands up. “Your armor is getting tight; it's time to visit him.”

“We're going to Uncle Aid?!” Immediately all shame and sorrows of this day are forgotten: Aeon leaps, clapping his hands. “Yay!”

Barricade shakes his head, but Aeon can tell his caretaker isn't upset anymore.

“When I get my days off,” he says, rising back on his feet and taking Aeon's hand again. “So you better prepare for a long trip.”

***

“Uncle Aid!” Aeon storms inside as soon as the door opens, almost making the nurse trip, and jumps right into First Aid's arms.

“Woah-woah-woah, careful, little cannonball!” the old medic laughs, picking him up. “You're getting too heavy. Look at you, you've grown so much!”

Aeon grins, but starts wiggling (he's not a sparkling to be carried around!). First Aid takes the hint and puts him down, turning to greet his other guest.

“Hello, First Aid,” Barricade says, closing the door behind him and cutting the brightly lit hall from the darkness outside. He exchanges a short nod with the nurse – second-class, judging by the filed claws – and shakes hands with First Aid.

“Thank you, Ambulon,” First Aid says to the nurse. “You are free now.”

Ambulon just nods again and disappears upstairs. He doesn't show any open interest in his boss's visitors.

“New recruit?” Barricade asks.

“Yes.” First Aid takes a piece of mesh and starts brushing road dust off wiggling Aeon. “Finished nurse courses, didn't get into med school. I took him in. He's a good medic, and his presence calms some patients down. There you go.” He offers the brush to Barricade.

Barricade casts one last glance at the stairs, takes the brush and passes First Aid a little chip.

“Here are the contacts of the courier. He'll be in Tarn in three days.”

“Thank you!” First Aid hides the chip and sighs, rubbing his helm. “Primus... It's been so hard since the Council raised the prices for anti-viral updates. I have half of my patients still using ones from the last vorn. I really appreciate what you are doing for me.”

“And we appreciate what you're doing for us.” Barricade squeezes his hand. “Your intake filters save lots of lives.”

Aeon hears what the adults are talking about, but doesn't listen too deeply. He can tell conversations that didn't happen from normal ones, and this one certainly didn't happen. He is much more interested in the bowl of multicolored energon goodies that stands on the counter – he already ate three, and is now aiming for the fourth one (six more are sitting in his subspace – souvenirs for his classmates).

“Now-now, Aeon, not before recharge.” First Aid appears behind him and puts the bowl on a shelf. “You'll get more tomorrow, but now it's getting late.”

“Aaaw,” Aeon drones, but, truth to be told, he's not in the mood to argue. He is rather sleepy, after all. It was a long road from Kaon, and they spent six hours on border control.

“Go recharge,” First Aid strokes his helm. “I prepared Ward 4 for you and left some energon cubes there.”

“Thank you, Aid,” Barricade's voice rumbles above, and Aeon allows his caretaker to take him up the stairs.

“G'night, Uncle Aid,” he murmurs, and falls into recharge as soon as his head touches the berth.

***

The fake armor comes off shell by shell, as First Aid dismantles his locks. Aeon stands still on the table, watching the black and blue plates cover the surface around him. It feels weird, seeing parts of himself lying like this, and he feels very light right now, and kind of... naked. His own, real plating is gunmetal grey.

Aeon looks in the mirror that hangs on the opposite wall, and the mech he sees is unfamiliar. Or rather, strikingly familiar: it's Megatron. Aeon flexes his arm and watches Megatron do it too; he makes a face, and Megatron teases him from the mirror. It is surreal, and still hard to grasp. But this resemblance to Megatron is why Aeon must wear his protective shell, and why he must never attract attention of authorities. He is only alive because Uncle Aid made him this shell.

“So, young mech,” First Aid opens a file with schematics. “We need to work on your future altmode this time. Your natural one is a heavy tracked vehicle, it seems, but I'd prefer to modify it and change its look. So tell me: whom do you want to be?”

“A warrior!” Aeon states, beaming. The picture in Overdrive's home glows in his mind, Megatron facing Omega Supreme.

First Aid casts a disapproving glance at Barricade, who shrugs, and then turns back to Aeon.

“Aeon, if you have a military altmode, you will have your t-cog taken out. You will never be able to transform, and the government officials will be monitoring you closely. It's too dangerous.”

Aeon sighs; he kind of expected it, but it was worth a try.

“Okay,” he says, “then an ambulance. I wanna be a medic, like you, Uncle Aid.”

First Aid's voice softens.

“You don't need an ambulance altmode to be a medic, Aeon. You can take nurse courses whenever you want. But we need an altmode for you, something simple and inconspicuous.”

Aeon sighs again. He hates when adults are like that – asking you what you want despite already having made a decision for you.

“A construction machine, then,” he says. “I want to build houses.”

First Aid makes an ex-vent of relief and nods.

“That's good! That I can do. We'll make you a bulldozer or an excavator.”

“Cheer up, kid.” Barricade puts a hand on his shoulder, and it's heavy and warm and rough – Aeon could never feel so much through the fake armor. “We'll make you a medic if that's what you want, bulldozer or no.”

Aeon smiles at him, content again.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has a [fanart](http://pollution-of-subterranean-waters.tumblr.com/post/175648374854/this-is-based-on-darklordofcutlets-rebirth)! 
> 
> And here is [the song that inspired it](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tId6ePj7Zpo). 


	3. Gaudete

“Morning, Aeon!” Shovel's bellow could be heard from half a street afar. When Aeon saw his friend waving at him with a huge grin on his face, it was hard not to smile in return, even though all Aeon wanted was to crawl in a dark place and rust there.

“Morning, Shovel,” he murmured, as the giant excavator slapped his shoulder. Aeon was one of the few mechs who could withstand that mighty slap and not even sway.

“Hey, why so gloomy? Have you received the answer from the courses yet?” Shovel continued to grin for a klik longer, until the pieces clicked in his head. “Oh, scrap. Did they say no?”

“Yeah.” Aeon turned away, busying himself with sorting his tools. “They said, 'we've already got the second-class quota, try next vorn'.”

“The aftheads.” Shovel clenched his fist. “It's slaggin' nurse courses, not Iaconian Medical Academy! And you studied so hard!”

“Well, apparently, to them I'm just 'quota'.” Aeon sighed, closing his optics for a moment. He already spent the entire night quietly fuming on his berth, and the evening before - being awkwardly comforted by Barricade. The old mech even opened a cube of quality high-grade they had in storage, but it brought no relief to Aeon.

“Aeon! Shovel! Get to your work places!” The shrill yell of their supervisor made them both cringe.

“Definitely worse than Starscream,” Shovel whispered to Aeon as they moved out. That was their secret game, comparing their supervisor's screechy voice to the videos of the late Air Commander.

But screechy or not, Toggle was their boss – and an Autobot – which meant his orders were to be obeyed. Aeon and Shovel transformed and headed to the excavation site that was going to become the basement of a new house.

They often worked in pair: Shovel was digging, and Aeon, with his altmode of a (fake) bulldozer, was taking the muck away. The rhythm was soothingly familiar, and Aeon allowed himself to get lost in it. It felt good, to forget the festering burn of injustice that corroded his chest from within.

Aeon knew he could be a nurse, maybe even a medic! He had been taking care of small repairs for Barricade and himself for vorns now. He was even fixing little malfunctions of his fake armor, making sure that his heavy cargo carrying unit didn't come loose. It was a pretty fine work, and Aeon was proud of it. Uncle Aid said so too!

But of course, he couldn't present it to the courses' headmaster. And even if he could, he doubted it would be of any help.

He was thinking about it again. Aeon revved his engine angrily and dumped the muck with double force.

***

“So, I'm gonna hit the bar.” Shovel weighted the small handful of shanix he got for this day's shift. “You?”

“I'll pass.” Aeon really wasn't in the mood for the bar. “I promised to do something for Stonebuster.”

“Ah! Sure.” Despite being a Decepticon, Shovel was a terrible liar: he produced that wide, open grin again, and winked. “Good luck, Aeon.”

Aeon gripped his hand as goodbye, and they parted their ways.

Aeon knew the streets of Oriens district like the back of his own hand: all dirty corners and turns, every shop and every graffiti. A mismatched spot of paint on the wall of a barrack covered a crude Decepticon symbol he and Shovel drew there one night. A dent on a local toolmaker's roof – that's when the Seeker twins were learning maneuvers and crashed into each other.

Stonebuster's cracking baritone was another familiar piece. Sometimes Aeon realized that he actually perceived the old mech as an integral part of these streets, just like the dented roof. Stonebuster had always been here, and the thought of him not sitting on his usual place was scary.

Stonebuster was singing _Come back to us, o lord of devastated land._ Aeon stopped a little to the side, watching how mechs passing by slowed down when they heard the song, how their optics dimmed, how some looked away and some dropped coins in Stonebuster's cup. The song's melody tugged at his spark, mourning, hopeless. No future for them without Lord Megatron, this was their fate, to _weep in shadows and toil_. Aeon shook his head. This was why he never liked this song, but today it fit his mood.

He let Stonebuster finish and then approached.

“Hey, old mech.”

“Hello to you too, kid.” Stonebuster looked up at him, his right optic grey and shattered. “Came to take an old ruin home?”

“Something like this.” After Aeon's upgrade to adult body helping Stonebuster up was as easy as lifting a datapad. Aeon quite enjoyed his strength, although he was fairly sure he still didn't know the limit to it.

Stonebuster rented a basement room under a shop a block away. Usually he didn't invite other people to his home, but today was a special occasion.

“Did you bring it?” Stonebuster asked as soon as he sat down on his oil-stained berth. Aeon tried not to cringe, First Aid's hygiene lectures ingrained in his processor. He offered Stonebuster help with cleaning up before, but the old mech always refused.

Instead of answering, Aeon reached into his subspace and took out a small round object: a spare optic.

“Uncle Aid constructed it, so it's good,” he said. He tried making a spare optic himself, but failed miserably. This was what medical school was for.

“Great, great!” Stonebuster licked his lips, shifting on his seat with a screech. “You can install it, right?”

“Yes, that I can do.” The next thing Aeon took out was a small toolbox. He was going to show these arrogant Autobots from nurse courses.

***

When Aeon arrived home, a message was waiting for him on his datapad.

“First Aid,” Barricade said, nodding at the blinking screen. “I didn't answer, thought you gotta do it.”

“Thanks.” Aeon sighed, sitting down at the table next to his caretaker. Barricade pretended to be engrossed in polishing a spare set of plating, for which Aeon was grateful. He picked up the datapad and called the comm line.

After only a klik the screen lit up and showed First Aid's masked face.

“Aeon!” The old medic leaned into the screen. “How did it...” He stopped, having noticed Aeon's expression. “Oh. Oh, Aeon, I'm so sorry.”

“It's okay, Uncle Aid.” Aeon forced a small smile. “It's not that I didn't know anything, it's just the quota. I'll try again next vorn.”

But First Aid wasn't going to be deceived by something like this.

“That's a pile of scrap.” He paused. “I can write to them, if you want? I might not be a Chief Medic of Iaconian Central, but I hope my name is still remembered...”

“No, Uncle Aid, it's okay.” The pretense was gone, and Aeon allowed himself to wince. “I don't want to be the mech who gets in thanks to connections. I want to prove them all wrong.”

“I'm sure you will.” First Aid's optics glimmered as he smiled under his mask. Aeon had long since learned to decipher his uncle's expressions.

Well, technically First Aid wasn't his uncle; but he was a mech who found Aeon on the street and took him in, so Aeon was used to thinking about him as family.

“How is Barricade?” First Aid asked meanwhile. “Is he taking his coolant?”

“I can give him the datapad,” Aeon said and grinned as he saw Barricade making scary faces at him. He pushed the datapad to his caretaker, and Barricade made a cutthroat gesture at Aeon before taking it.

“Hi, Aid. Yes, I'm taking the coolant, stop acting like a fussy minibot. No, I am FINE!”

Aeon chuckled as he left the table and his family to their arguments. First Aid might've been an Autobot, but he was a good one. Aeon just wished there were more Autobots like his uncle.

But daydreaming wouldn't get him anywhere.

***

This morning the look of the construction site made Aeon and Shovel stop and stare. There were piles of metal balks everywhere, and a confused-looking crane mech standing next to them, surrounded by other construction workers who bombarded him with questions. Toggle was running around like crazy.

“Finally! You two, get to work!” The Autobot barely reached their chests with his helm, and still managed to appear commanding. “We've got a new deadline! The tower must be ready by the end of the stellar cycle!”

“What?” Shovel's jaw dropped. “But it's like, twice as fast.”

“The Administration of Construction forgot to ask your opinion, second-class.” Toggle clasped his twitching hands. “Do you think I like it? It's me who's gonna answer for a missed deadline.”

“You said 'tower'?” Aeon interrupted, a heatwave of anger starting to brew in his chest. “I thought we were building a house.” A house for which they demolished some barracks, forcing the (obviously second-class) bots who lived there out. But Aeon still was optimistic, because a new house meant more hab suits and better living conditions.

“Well now it's an office tower, watcha gonna do.” Toggle wiped the non-existent dirt from his helm. His left optic was flickering.

“But we constructed the basement for a house! The tower will be much higher, and...”

Aeon didn't manage to finish, because Toggle grabbed his arm and pulled him down to optic level with force unexpected from such a small bot.

“Listen here, smart-aft,” he hissed, his optics flickering even quicker. “We don't ask questions here, okay? The Administration says 'a tower in a stellar cycle', we give them a tower in a stellar cycle. So grab the balks and start welding before I called the enforcers for a rebellious second-class.”

“But we are no welders,” Shovel's voice came from behind. He took Aeon's other hand and pulled him back, silently begging him to stop.

“Then good thing that Optimus Prime abolished functionism,” Toggle said dryly, crossing his arms.

***

“This is insanity,“ Aeon said, holding the balk that Shovel was welding. „This goes against all safety regulations.“

„What goes against safety regulations is your mouth. Ouch!“ Shovel blew cool air at his burned hand. „Do you even watch the news? Remember what they did to those poor guys in Vos? They protested, and bam! Now they all rust in prison.“

„They went to protest with Decepticon flags, what did they expect.“ Aeon shook his head. „The Autobots are so afraid they'd shoot anyone who reminds them of war.“

„Afraid, he says!“ Shovel snorted. „If they were afraid, we could use that and seize some power, and then...“

„This is not how it works, Shovel.“ Aeon closed his optics for a moment. Barricade's image appeared in his mind: old scars littering his frame, left shoulder joint weak after an acid bomb was dropped on him during one of the battles, recharge interrupted now and them by violent fluxes. Barricade went through war, and although it gained him respect and reverence from his fellow second-class citizens, it left him in ruins. Aeon dreamed of battling the Elite Guard and defeating the Council when he was a sparkling, but he learned where war led since then.

He also knew that his people wouldn't survive another war. Stonebuster with his crippled legs; old Overdrive, who died of overheating when his ventilation system failed him completely; Shovel, who had never held a weapon in his entire life; Seeker twins Flare and Dazzle, who had monitoring chips in them like all second-class flyers and their in-built weapons amputated... If they ever decided to fight, they'd be overpowered and destroyed by well-trained and well-fueled Autobot forces in a week.

They hoped for their Lord Megatron's return and call for arms, but in Aeon's opinion, it would be better if Megatron never returned.

***

They worked day and night, and the tower was rising higher and higher. It was nearing completion – a massive building of metal and glass – and now Aeon was helping the crane bot pick up new materials to send them to the top.

The sound started as a creak, almost like a badly-oiled joint. But then it grew louder, turning into a heavy groan, and then the wall to Aeon's side trembled.

He didn't even manage to cry out, to react – he just dashed forward in blind panic, slamming into the crane bot and pushing them both away from the building. And behind them the groan was swallowed by a ground-shattering rumble as the tower collapsed. Pieces of metal and rock rained on Aeon's back, his audials deafened by the thundering crash.

The silence afterwards was even more deafening. Coughing, Aeon struggled to his feet and glanced back. In the cloud of dust he could see the tower – its upper floors were somehow still standing, a terrible skeleton on top of a hill of rubble that used to be its foundation.

Aeon looked around slowly. The crane bot was sitting on the ground, staring at the remains of the tower and shaking. Toggle was here too; his blue optics were pale.

The ruined building creaked like a living being.

And suddenly the ability to move returned to Aeon.

“Toggle!” Aeon grabbed the supervisor's shoulders. “There were workers there!” Shovel, Shovel was there too, he was working on the top floors! “We need to get them out!”

“Are you... Are you fragging crazy?” Toggle wrenched himself out of Aeon's grip. “That's the smallest of our problems right now! How am I going to explain this?!”

Red haze blinded Aeon for a moment, and when he came to his senses again, he was holding Toggle by his collar, the supervisor's feet dangling above the ground.

“There are people there!” Aeon growled, not recognizing his own voice. “They might be still alive! Order your mechs to organize a rescue party!”

A small group of workers huddled together in the background, but Toggle wasn't going to be intimidated.

“I will not,” he wheezed, glaring right into Aeon's optics. “I am not risking more lives for a handful of second-classes who are most likely already dead.”

“Fine!” Aeon dropped the supervisor on the ground, spun around and ran to the building. Behind him Toggle shouted:

“Aeon! What are you doing?! It's dangerous! Come back here!”

But Aeon didn't listen. He climbed up the rubble pile and disappeared in one of the shattered windows.

Fortunately, all the workers were busy on the upper floors today. But as Aeon made his way through the rubble, he saw that the floors of the tower collapsed in many places. This was how he found the first worker: buried under the pieces of ceiling. The mech was conscious, although in shock, and when Aeon pushed the rubble off him, he even managed to stand and trudge to the exit. This was how Aeon found Shovel as well – but his friend was unconscious, so Aeon sent him out with an Autobot glass cutter who could still walk.

There were dead bodies too. A foreman with a balk piercing his chest; a truck bot whom Aeon almost got out when the wall behind them caved in and smashed the truck's cranial chamber. Aeon fell to his knees, staring at the pieces of processor scattered on the floor, but then the building grated around him, and Aeon jumped back up. There were still some workers here; he had to look for them.

But the time was running out: more walls started cracking around him as Aeon climbed to the upper floors, calling for survivors. At least three more workers, they might be trapped, he needed to find them...

And there were two – a tall lanky electrician and his minibot partner. Aeon moved towards them, but at this moment his time ran out, and the floor dropped underneath all of them.

They fell through the stores, hitting the rubble pile with a loud clang. Sparks flew out of Aeon's optics at the collision, and his visor was smashed to pieces. It took him some time before he managed to brush the purple visor shards off his face and get on all fours. The electrician and the minibot lay right next to him, and Aeon crawled, reaching for them – when with the last monstrous groan the remnants of the tower fell on top of them. All Aeon could do was throw himself over his unconscious colleagues.

The mass of concrete and metal pressed him to the ground, blocking all light, suffocating – yet Aeon felt his spark burning brighter than ever. Anger that had been accumulating in him for a while, rage and stubborn determination – all of it exploded in one fiery flare of desire to _live_ – and slowly but steadily, Aeon stood up. His knees trembled, his shoulders creaked, but he was standing up, pushing at the rubble. It gripped at him like many hungry hands, and Aeon heard the locks snap, armored plates break and dent, yet he was _winning_. The strength he was so proud of, strength the full extend of which he never knew, finally found its purpose.

***

„We need to go dig! We need to get him out!” Shovel was struggling against the hold of three other workers, who barely managed to keep the enormous green excavator in place. But then Shovel turned to the crowd of onlookers that gathered around.

“What about you? Are you gonna just stand and watch?”

“Mech... Your pal is dead,” one of the braver onlookers said. “Didn't you see the building collapse?”

“Yeah,” someone else agreed. “It's just suicide.”

But then several bots in the crowd gasped, pointing at the tower remains, and Shovel turned around to see...

Aeon – it must have been Aeon – walked out of the ruins, carrying two unconscious bodies on his shoulders.

It must've been Aeon, because several black and blue plates hanging on his frame definitely belonged to Aeon, as did the remains of a broken purple visor. But the armor underneath those plates was gunmetal grey, thick plates curving into spikes. Gone was bulldozer's kibble, gone was the heavy boxy helm – gone was Aeon. Because the mech who stood before them was –

“Lord Megatron!” came a cry from the crowd, and then the construction site filled with shouting:

“Lord Megatron!”

“Lord Megatron has returned!”

“All hail Megatron!”

And Megatron stood there, in front of the collapsed tower, with his jaw dropped, and stared at the ecstatic crowd, at Toggle and the other Autobots slowly moving away, at the shocked wounded workers lying on the ground with an equally shocked medic next to them.

And then Lord Megatron put the last two rescued mechs on the ground, turned around and fled.

***

Aeon was sitting in the secret fort. Technically, it was just a basement in an abandoned building, but when he and Shovel were sparklings, this was their secret fort where they stored their treasures and planned their adventures. They were still here, their treasures: a polished piece of plating, an empty energon cube full of colorful pebbles, a turbofox tail, two sharpened rods that used to be their swords, a piece of mesh cloth.

Aeon was sitting on the cloth with his knees drawn to his chest. On the way here another fake armor plate fell off, and now it was lying next to him, glinting in the reddish light of the setting sun that entered the basement through a tiny window.

Aeon didn't know how he would get home. His secret was out; when Aeon was a sparkling, he sometimes wondered what would happen if he took his fake armor off. Would people even notice? Would they start running away, screaming? Would they call him an impostor?

Well, now he knew.

Aeon's gaze fell on his arms, wrapped tightly around his knees. They looked smaller than he was used to; grey and powerful and so... not his. Aeon's armor was black and blue; he was big and somewhat slow, his shape more boxy than sleek. He wasn't...

He wasn't Megatron.

And yet to everybody else he was. They didn't even hesitate; they believed in his return immediately, like it was some miracle. What a foolish thing to do! So stupid. But it seemed people liked to believe in things that made them feel better. Autobots believed that only a Prime could hold the Star Saber, and Decepticons... Decepticons believed Megatron would come to save them all.

But how would Aeon get home now? And even worse, how would he get to Tarn to First Aid, the only mech who could rebuild his complex fake armor? Would it even be safe to go home? Toggle knew who he was, Toggle would tell the authorities, and they would come for him, come for him and Barricade...

There was a bang of an opening door, and Aeon jumped in his seat. He almost expected the Council's enforcers – but it was Shovel who entered the basement, Barricade in tow.

“Aeon!” Barricade rushed to him, ignoring his look. “Shovel told me what happened. By Cybertron...” And then his old caretaker hugged him.

Aeon stiffened; Barricade had never been into physical affection, especially since Aeon grew up. But now he was pressing Aeon to his chest, like many vorns ago, and Aeon couldn't help but hug him back.

“I'm sorry, caretaker,” he said, voice suddenly breaking up. “I... I didn't think my armor would...”

“Shovel told me you saved nine mechs today.” Barricade pulled away and looked at him, his purple optics shimmering. “I'm proud of you, but never, NEVER GO INTO A COLLAPSED BUILDING AGAIN.”

Aeon chuckled, the nerve-wracking reality finally catching up with him. He was so preoccupied with his secret being out in the open, that he forgot he almost died.

But Shovel was gawking at him like at some marvel, and Aeon suppressed the urge to squirm.

“Are you really Lord Megatron?” Shovel breathed out. “And you never told me! Thank you for saving me, Lord...”

“Shovel, please.” Aeon winced. “I'm not Megatron. It's a foolish legend, that Megatron will be reborn. I just happen to have a similar frame. And this kind of reaction is exactly why we hid it.” He turned to Barricade. “Caretaker! Are they looking for me? Are you safe?”

Barricade shook his head.

“It's okay, Aeon. You did well to disappear right away. Nobody made any pictures, and no one can prove anything. Your supervisor doesn't seem to have raised any alarm.”

“Phew.” Aeon rested his back against the wall, tension leaving his struts. “But what are we gonna do, caretaker? I need my fake armor.”

“First, we're gonna keep you here. Some caution never hurts.” Barricade stood up, taking up the commanding role and suddenly looking like a true military officer. “Then we'll bring you some old plating we have at our home. And I'll call First Aid, ask him to come. Hopefully, this whole ordeal won't cause too much ruckus.”

***

It did cause ruckus. The first time Aeon dared to leave his shelter in the basement – in the evening, when darkness could conceal imperfections of his hastily thrown together fake armor – he went to the familiar street, to see if anything was different.

At a first glance, nothing seemed off. Stonebuster was sitting at his usual place, playing his ten-string and singing, but it was the song that attracted Aeon's attention.

 _Rejoice, people of Kaon,_  
_Your lord returned to you_  
_To lead you out of misery  
_ _To save all who stayed true_

 _Glory, glory to our lord,  
_ _For victory and joy!_

Oh, no. 

Aeon's first intention was to run to Stonebuster and beg him to stop, and it took a lot of willpower to hold back. But he saw – he saw bots stop and listen to the song, and throw coins to Stonebuster, and whisper to each other. They hurried away afterwards, yet dread settled in Aeon's spark.

He heard the song again – thundering from a bar. And through the window he saw one of the construction workers he carried out of the tower, flailing his arms and telling something to the excited patrons.

“Caretaker, we need to do something!” Aeon told Barricade that night, desperate, but Barricade only shook his head.

“Too late, Aeon. Today my whole shift crew was talking about Lord Megatron's return. They resolved that he is just biding his time, preparing a revolt.” Barricade sighed. “I tried to tell them not to believe in rumors, but they didn't listen. I think they decided to look for weapons – 'to be prepared' when Lord Megatron calls to arms.”

Aeon just grabbed his helm.

“This is a disaster. This is not happening.”

But it was happening – all over Kaon. Autobots started walking in groups, staying as far away from second-class mechs as possible. In the streets, at the market, in factories and mines and construction sites whispers were turning to loud exclamations of joy.

“I need to talk to them,” Aeon told his caretaker. “It would seem this is the only way. I will prove to them I'm not Megatron, I will show them the fake armor. You will help me, right, Shovel?” He glanced at his fiend, and Shovel made an indefinite “mmm” sound.

But when Aeon went out of the basement in the evening, it wasn't dark or quiet. Fires were burning on the squares of the city, and the streets were full of mechs. They were raising energon cubes in cheers, they were dancing – and the song, the accursed song flew over Kaon:

 _Glory, glory to our lord,  
_ _For victory and joy!_

Someone pushed a cube into Aeon's hands, someone patted him on the back, congratulating him with “Lord Megatron's return”, and all around him there were hands waving self-made blades and guns. On the walls here and there Aeon saw Decepticon symbols painted, huge and shamelessly purple – for the first time in vorns shown in the open, and cans of paint were handed over among the crowd, laughing and drunken mechs drawing purple symbols on their chests and shoulders.

 _Glory, glory to our lord,  
_ _For victory and joy!_

“No, no-no-no...” Aeon wanted to cry, despair clenching his spark in an iron grip. There were no enforcers here yet – they probably weren't ready for this spontaneous celebration and a city's worth of armed second-class bots. But they would come, sooner or later they would strike, and then...

In the next second Aeon was running to a platform in the middle of the square that served as a mechanic's workshop during the day. He jumped on the platform, taking off the visor and the fake shoulder pads.

“Everyone! Kaonites! Please, listen to me!” But then hundreds of optics fell on him, and a roar of hundreds voices muffled his words.

“Lord Megatron! Lord Megatron!”

Ecstatic mechs rushed to the platform, and Aeon found himself picked up in the air, held up by many hands as bots were trying to touch him, to feel that he was real. His fake plating didn't survive this treatment, easily peeled off and taken away by lucky mechs bellowing in joy over their “souvenirs”. Nobody listened to him; Aeon felt like a helpless doll, bounced up and down as the crowd around him chanted:

“ALL HAIL MEGATRON! ALL HAIL MEGATRON!”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Gaudete](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l1NgHonWNE0) \- the carol that inspired this chapter.


	4. Tidings of Comfort and Joy

The next couple of days felt like a delirious dream; everything was so absurd that it was hard for Aeon to understand that it was really happening.

He kept hiding in his basement, but the more time passed, the more nominal his shelter became. Somehow bots learned about it (not that it was a very well-kept secret originally), and Aeon started getting visitors.

“I am gathering troops for you, my lord,” Starblast informed him when she first slipped into the basement. Aeon wanted to scream; of all bots, Starblast, the old scavenger who babysat him and his classmates when they were mere sparklings, should've known better! And yet here she was, an image of fierce determination. “I am training them outside the city, so that they are ready when you decide to move out.”

Aeon suppressed the desire to groan, or to cry – he wasn't sure himself.

“You are training _troops_?” He repeated slowly. “Starblast, I don't remember asking for that.” 

“They all volunteered, my lord.” Starblast tapped her claws on the table. “And more volunteers arrive every day. We sent envoys to Tarn and Vos, and they are preparing for the uprising too.”

“You WHAT?!” Aeon barely held himself from hitting his face with his palm. By Cybertron... This was becoming worse and worse. 

Starblast just nodded, unshaken. “But I warn you, my lord, you have to address your people as soon as possible. For now nobody is sure what your plan is.”

_There is no plan,_ Aeon wanted to cry.  _I am not Megatron!_ But Starblast's optics were glowing in the semi-darkness of the basement, narrowed to two red slits, her fangs glistened as she watched Aeon with a smile of a pit fighter turbofox, and somehow denying Megatron's identity seemed far less safe. 

But there was reason in Starblast's advice, Aeon supposed. He monitored the newsfeed all day long; fortunately, for now the Autobots didn't seem to realize the full extent of what was brewing under their noses. There were reports of „unrest” and “Decepticon-themed riots”, and the enforcers started patrolling the streets of Kaon more thoroughly, dispersing all gatherings, which resulted in several quite violent clashes when the dispersed fought back. But there was no frontal assault, and while the concerned newsreaders admitted the rioters were chanting Megatron's name, it didn't go further than that. Kaon was a Decepticon city; the Autobots only lived in the city center.

At first Aeon wondered why Toggle didn't report his appearance – surely the Autobots would be more active if they actually heard one of their own confirm a Megatron sighting! - until Shovel returned from a short meeting with their co-workers.

“So apparently nobody has seen that grease spot since the day of disaster.” Shovel grinned. “Mechs say that Toggle probably went into hiding because he's afraid his patrons will hunt him down for the tower's collapse. I bet he doesn't want 'hiding Megatron' being added to his list of crimes.” He snickered, but Aeon was too busy feeling relieved to share in Shovel's childlike glee. 

Still, Aeon knew the Autobots wouldn't stay ignorant forever. Once they confirm that there was a Megatron lookalike running around, and that the second-class bots were rallying behind him, the Council would hit them full-force. They will send in Elite Guard and Sentinel bots, and they will crush the budding rebellion, taking everyone Aeon loved with it.

Starblast was right: he had to address his people. He had to appear in public and somehow persuade them to stop, to calm down before it was too late. They were hurrying to their demise like a massive stream, carrying Aeon with it; he had to turn the tide.

***

But not all visitors were unpleasant. One day the door to the basement opened, and Aeon found himself in a tight embrace of red-and-white arms.

“Uncle Aid!” He gasped, squirming in the medic's hold. First Aid's head barely reached to Aeon's chest now, yet his hugs were as tight as ever. From the entrance to the basement Barricade chuckled as he caught his ward's gaze. 

“Primus, Aeon.” First Aid let him go and put his hands on Aeon's cheeks, pulling him down and peering into his face. “You scared me so much!” 

“I scared myself, Uncle Aid.” Aeon looked him over. First Aid's optics were dim, and the white of his armor turned grey from the road dust. “Did you drive all the way from Tarn without stop?”

“Of course I did! I left right after I got Barricade's message. The newsfeed is buzzing with reports of riots in Kaon.” First Aid rubbed his tired optics. “Aeon, this is getting serious. I'm afraid fake armor won't solve our problem anymore.”

“Yeah...” Aeon lowered his gaze. “It won't.” 

“Is it war then?” First Aid's face darkened. “Aeon, we cannot allow this to happen. Our previous war lasted four million years and cost us ninety-five percent of our population. We cannot go to war.” 

“I know, Uncle.” Aeon sat down on a chair next to a table someone brought him a while ago. “I don't want another war too. But my wishes don't matter much – the Decepticons are preparing for a fight regardless of what I say, and they think I'm their leader! I doubt the Autobots will be more willing to listen to a Megatron knock-off when they arrive here with their troops.” 

“I'm sure there is a way,” First Aid said, but there was no confidence in his voice. 

Meanwhile the basement was filling with people. First Aid's arrival didn't go unnoticed, and curious bots started peeking inside: Shovel was the first, followed by a couple of Barricade's colleagues, until Starblast arrived.

“What is this Autobot doing here?” She spat, fangs bared and optics blazing. And this was the final drop. 

Aeon rose from his seat and stepped towards her, his fists clenched. For the first time Aeon was acutely aware of his superior height and bulk, and he  _used_ it, looming over the Seeker femme. 

“ _This Autobot_ ,” he barked, “saved my life when I was just a sparkling abandoned to die. _This Autobot_ gives medical help to all who need it, and he saved numerous Decepticon lives. _This Autobot_ runs a clinic in the slums of Tarn, while he could be doing cosmetic surgeries in the best hospitals of Iacon. _And you will treat him with respect_ ,” he growled right into Starblast's face. 

He didn't know what he expected – but certainly not this; for Starblast made a step back, and then bowed her head and uttered:

“Yes, Lord Megatron.” 

Startled out of his fury, Aeon glanced around. Bots were muttering a variation of the same phrase, and one of them was pushing a chair towards First Aid. Shovel was gawking at him with newfound awe.

Tired, Aeon decided he would take it.

***

It was way past midnight, and yet Aeon couldn't recharge. He was sitting on his chair, resting his elbows on the table, and stared at the small rectangle of the basement window. It wasn't much lighter outside – Kaon's sky was cloudy, and this street barely had any lights – but the window was still brighter compared to the darkness of the basement.

On an improvised berth in the corner First Aid was deep in recharge; Aeon heard the raspy sound of his vents. Barricade rested in a chair next to him, an ancient rifle standing between his knees. Aeon could see their silhouettes, and the sight made his spark ache. His old caretakers, ready to help and protect him, even though it is  _he_ who's supposed to help  _them_ . 

But all he did was drag them into mortal danger. The Seeker twins brought news this evening – that Autobot troops were gathering at the base next to Kaon. Enforcer troops for now, not military, but the moment it would become clear the Decepticons were ready to fight, an anti-riot operation would give place to war.

And they were not prepared for war. These two mechs here, and Shovel who was standing vigil outside – they were the perfect representation of the “great Decepticon army“: old bots with ancient guns and young, impressionable peaceborns who believed in „Lord Megatron“ too much. Most of them didn't know what to do with weapons – warbuilds even had them surgically removed, since second-class bots were forbidden to own guns. They will be crushed in the first battle – but this time, Aeon feared the Autobots wouldn't stop at making them second-class.

This time, Autobots would annihilate them.

Aeon couldn't allow this to happen. He had to do something. And, fortunately or not, he had the means to do it.

So the next morning Aeon took Shovel by his shoulders and said:

„Go tell everyone: I will make a speech tomorrow. An hour before midnight, in the abandoned factory in the Iustum district. Just make sure to say not to share anything through the Grid. Person to person only.“

Shovel nodded, smiling. This way of communication was nothing new – this was how second-class bots have been sharing news for years. Aeon was rather confident in his fellow citizens’ ability to be discreet; what worried him was how enthusiastic Shovel appeared.

But this evening a new visitor appeared in his basement. In fact, he was dragged in by two bulky mechs who volunteered to guard “Lord Megatron’s” base of operations.

“We caught a spy, my lord,” one of them said, pushing their captive to the floor. “He was sniffing around.”

Aeon didn’t even correct him; he knew the mech who struggled to his feet in the center of the room. His name was… Cutter? Was it Cutter? He was an Autobot – and one of Aeon’s coworkers. Former coworkers.

Peaceful days of construction work seemed so far away now. Like they ended many vorns ago.

“I am not a spy,” the Autobot said, rubbing his scuffed cheek. His left optic was cracked – apparently, the guards weren’t gentle. “I heard that you’re gonna make a speech, but nobody would tell me where and when. So I came to ask.”

“And why?” Aeon wasn’t going to buy it so easily. “Why do you think we would tell you anything?” 

The Autobot sighed.

“Because you saved my life. Don’t think I forgot; you looked different, but I know it was you. You dug me out of the rubble and saved me, and you didn’t care I was an Autobot. So I don’t care too.”

One of the guards snorted.

“Yeah, right. Sounds too good to be true.”

“I have to agree,” Aeon said, studying the Autobot's dented face. He wanted to believe him, he really did... But he had to be careful. Barricade's teachings from long ago repeated in his head – _don't trust them, smile and lie and pretend, they will use any mistake against you._ “Being grateful is one thing. Joining a 'Decepticon riot' is another.” 

“Look, all I wanted was to hear you talk.” The Autobot raised his chin. “I think you're different. Most Decepticon rhetorics are about killing Autobots and getting revenge; your two goons here are a good example.” He glared at the guards, who scowled. 

“Why you little..!”

“Quiet. I want to hear this.” Aeon raised a hand, and the guards stopped. 

“As I was saying,” the Autobot – Cutter – turned his attention back to Aeon, “you saved my life. You risked your life to save mine. So I want to hear you out.” He shook his head. “Look, I'm aware what you people think about us Autobots. But you know what, this is wrong. All of this,” he made a wide gesture. “This first-class and second-class scrap. I worked with second-class bots, and there was nothing different about them. You are angry, but I can see why – and besides, the Decepticons originally revolted because of the same second-class scrap.” Cutter paused to make an invent. “Anyway,” he continued, somewhat exasperated, “I wanted to hear what you have to say. And, um. I never thanked you. So thank you? I guess?” He cast a worried glance at Aeon. 

For a klik Aeon was at a loss of words. This... this was too good to be true. Impossible. But then he saw First Aid behind the guards’ backs, smiling, and the answer came to Aeon as easily as if it was prepared.

“You are welcome. And you are equally welcome to come to the speech. Uncle?” Aeon looked at First Aid as he helped the Autobot up. “Could you please tend to our guest’s injuries?” _“And check if he's sincere,”_ he added through the comm line. 

“Of course,” First Aid said, and his blue optics were shimmering. “Of course.”

***

Only when the evening of the next day came did it finally dawn upon Aeon what he was going to do. Talk in front of many people, take Megatron's mantle and pretend to be someone he wasn't, pretend he knew where to lead them...

But he had to; this became abundantly clear. Because if he didn't step up and at least try to control the growing tide of unrest, it would break out into anarchy. Fortunately or not, but Aeon had the power to control it – and if it meant he had to be Megatron, Aeon would become him.

He was pacing in a storage room at the back of the abandoned factory. The low rumble of a crowd was audible even through the thick doors. For a klik it became louder as the door opened and Shovel slipped in.

“How is...” Aeon started, but stopped as soon as he took a good look at his friend. “Shovel, is this a Decepticon badge?”

“Yeah!” Shovel beamed, puffing out his chest. Right in the middle of his breastplate was a purple badge, polished to a reflective glimmer despite multiple scratches on its surface. “And it's the real one! Carved from the metal of a spark chamber!”

“Where did you get it?” 

“It belonged to the sire of my carrier.” Shovel touched the badge with reverence. “He fought in the war. And now I will bear it too!” 

Aeon couldn't stop staring at the symbol. It was heavy and awfully real, displayed there in the open, challenging him.

“I was also thinking of changing my name,” Shovel continued. “Maybe something like Vindicator. How does it sound?”

“Shovel, that's _terrible_.” Aeon finally tore his gaze off the badge. “Why do you need to change your name?” 

“I dunno...” Shovel shuffled his foot, biting his lip. “I just wanted something that sounds cool. You know? Like a name of a real Decepticon warrior.” 

“None of us are warriors.” Aeon also stared at his feet. “And I like Shovel. I think it's a nice name.”

“Okay.” Shovel made a sound that seemed like a mix of a cough and a chuckle, and both of them fell silent. 

“Shovel?” Aeon broke the awkward silence, still avoiding looking at his friend. “Do you... Do you believe I am Megatron?” 

Shovel actually paused, thinking.

“I don't know,” he said at last. “I do? I mean, I believe you are reborn Lord Megatron. I'm just... I know you as Aeon, so you're also Aeon to me. If it makes sense?”

“Nothing really does,” Aeon said with a stiff chuckle. “The crowd there sounds enormous. I would've never thought so many bots would come simply to hear me talk.” 

“Of course they would!” Shovel smiled at him, proud and confident. “They believe in you. And those who don't will believe the moment they see you.” 

Aeon sighed, but did not reply. Instead he turned to the door and pushed it open.

***

The crowd was indeed enormous. It burst in cheers when Aeon stepped on the impromptu stage, an he let the roar of many voices die out on its own, using the time to study the hall. There were numerous bots here, most standing, some perched on the low-hanging balks; hundreds or optics all focused on Aeon. Starblast's volunteers were posted at the three entrances, and it made Aeon feel relieved to know that more lurked around the factory. If the enforcers hit them, they would know in advance.

But in the sea of red and purple optics Aeon also saw some blue ones, and his spark soared. Cutter was standing in the front row, surrounded by other workers from the construction site. A huge tankformer in the center of the room had his arm wrapped protectively around the shoulders of a sleek Autobot jet. A group of blue-opticed heavy transport mechs were leaning on the back wall, together with second-class mechs of the same frame type. All of them were brought here by someone, brought here by second-class bots that trusted them.

It made Aeon's spark soar. Maybe there was still hope for them. Maybe they could still avoid war. He cast a short glance at the side of the stage, where First Aid and Barricade were standing vigil with their ancient guns. He had to be quick, before the enforcers had a chance to appear.

“Cybertronians!” He shouted, and the crowd quieted, preparing to listen. “My brothers and sisters,” Aeon continued, softer. “You risked a lot coming here, and I am proud to see such bravery, to see so many of you. I have seen you work hard to get through each new day; I have seen sickness and poverty and disdain aimed at you, and yet you endured, and now you stand here. Never before have I been so proud.” 

Aeon made a pause to calm down his pounding spark and let the crowd cheer and clap again. They seemed puzzled in the beginning of his speech, and Aeon had to fight off the urge to bolt. All the voices whispering in his head –  _you screwed up, you've never made speeches before, what are you going to do?_ \- all of them grew silent. Aeon saw bots straightening their backs, their optics glowing brighter, watching him intensely, and Aeon straightened his back too. He couldn't let them down.

“We are called second-class, but I am not going to use this word anymore. I am going to call things by their names. There are Autobots, the victors; and there are Decepticons, the defeated. Autobots write their history and teach it to our children, they rule us and punish us for our ancestors' so-called 'crimes'. They blame us for disrupting the peace, but it's their peace, not ours. Just like you, your ancestors suffered under the yoke of an Autobot regime, living and dying in poverty and darkness. They rose up against that 'peace', and for that you are prosecuted now. This shall not be allowed to continue.”

Aeon closed his optics for a moment, preparing for what he was going to say next. There would be no way back after that.

“I have fought together with you for our freedom, my Decepticons, and I am here to fight together with you again. I have lived among you; I worked beside some of you, I shared energon with you, and I was denied jobs and knowledge by arrogant Autobots, just like you.”

The crowd's mood changed – now there were more angry shouts rather than cheers, and the Autobots shuffled uncomfortably, glancing around in fear. Aeon felt a surge of panic constrict his throat; no, that was a wrong step. He had to fix it.

“Yet I will not repeat our oppressors' mistakes!” Aeon raised his voice, and to his surprise, bots turned their attention to him. Feeling more confident, Aeon continued: “I refuse to act like those Councilors, judging others by the color of their optics and their heritage. I started the war to give Cybertron to all Cybertronians, and this hasn't changed.”

Aeon looked over the crowd, trying to meet as many gazes as he could.

“My family is mixed,” he said. “I was raised by a Decepticon and an Autobot – by those who fought on opposite sides, who were supposed to hate each other. And yet I couldn't wish for a more loving family.”

He looked at First Aid and Barricade again, his spark swelling, and then turned back to the crowd.

“I know that peace is possible – true peace, one based on equality, where no bot has power over another. What we have now is no peace; it is a continuous war waged by victors upon the defeated. And it has to stop.” Aeon lifted his chin up. “But we cannot be hasty, my friends! We are the defeated; we are weakened and controlled, we are denied education and jobs, we are mutilated just so that first class bots can sleep soundly, and our children are brought up in lies. If we act too rash, if we scare the Autobots too much, they will crush us. But we are Decepticons!” He raised his voice and heard it echo in the hall, and for a moment it **did** sound like Megatron. “We are masters of deception and pretense! And this is how we shall fight: we will keep the Autobots feeling safe and secure. We will let them think nothing special is happening. We will wait and prepare, and when the time comes, we will end this war once and for all!”

His last words drowned in the rumbling cheer, and Aeon had to wait to let the crowd calm down a little. He raised his hand, calling for silence – and they obeyed.

“But for this, my brothers and sisters, we need to be united. I am not going to lead an undisciplined band of thugs; I am here to lead the greatest army the galaxy has ever known – and I will see it rise again. We are Decepticons!” He raised his fist. “We are proud. We are unstoppable. We are one!” He let his optics roam across the room, meeting every gaze, taking in every face. “I will demand the strictest discipline. I will demand patience. I will demand ability to stay quiet, and pretend, and wait for the right moment. But I will do everything in my power to win us our freedom back. Will you swear allegiance to me?” 

The roar that answered him was the loudest yet; the echo boomed off the walls, the balks seemed to tremble, and hundreds fists were raised in the air as the bots chanted:

“MEGATRON! MEGATRON! MEGATRON!”

Aeon let them chant, and then calm down, and then see him off the stage, and only when he left the room did his knees buckle, and he would've fallen on the floor if First Aid and Barricade didn't catch him under his arms.

“You did well, kid,” Barricade told him, First Aid nodding in agreement. Aeon ex-vented in relief, and struggled to his feet - 

and then the sirens blared, and he heard screaming and gunshots. Starblast suddenly appeared before him, and Aeon heard her yell:

“Get Lord Megatron out of here!” 

Aeon struggled against his caretakers' hold.

“I can help,” he started, but this time nobody listened to him. He was dizzy, and everything around him appeared hazy, like in a dream. First Aid and Barricade led him away, further from the sirens and screams.

***

Aeon learned what happened the next day, from the safety of their new shelter. Enforcers did hit them, but fortunately, Starblast's perimeter guard worked: they noticed approaching vehicles and sounded the alarm. Most of the bots who came to listen to Aeon manged to escape; most, but not all.

The newsfeed was bursting with reports of a “Decepticon revolt” that was pacified by the police. There were pictures and videos of enforces pushing mechs to the floor, shooting at them, beating them. And, to Aeon's horror, the reporters made it look absolutely justified.

“They were wearing Decepticon insignia,” one of the interviewed officers stated with a frown. “It was not a spontaneous protest or a riot. No, this was a full-blown organized revolt. We are having a war situation on our hands.”

War. The word that filled every Autobot spark with fear. And even worse -

“They kept chanting Megatron's name,” another interviewee said. “We have multiple mentions of someone who appears like Megatron – an impostor, most likely – which really makes you wonder where our enforcers are looking.” 

“My sparkling was there!” an elderly Autobot femme shared in another video, furious. “He was arrested along with those beasts! You might think it's just second-class business, it doesn't involve you, but you are blind! While you are trying to be 'progressive', they are poisoning your sparklings' minds!”

And each day, Megatron's name was being repeated more and more, with more panic and hate.

Until Aeon understood that a peaceful solution was farther from them than ever.

***

“Where are you going?” First Aid stared at a small pile of compressed energon cubes Aeon was putting into his subspace. “Aeon?”

“I've made a mistake.” Aeon didn't dare to look at his uncle's face. “I was a fool to think I can control anything. To think the Autobots would ever listen to reborn Megatron.” He sealed his subspace and sat down to check his tracks. “But I'm not going to give up. I will make them listen to me.” 

“Aeon!” First Aid grabbed his arm, forcing Aeon to look at him. “Don't do anything rash! We are with you, and we will think of someth...” his voice trailed off when he met Aeon's optics. 

“Bots are in prison because of me,” Aeon said quetly. “Some were shot, maybe even killed. I might not be the direct cause, but I'm responsible for this. And I have to make sure it wasn't in vain. I owe them that much.” 

“Aeon...” First Aid's grip softened. “It's not... You don't have to do this alone. Let us help. At least tell us what you plan to do.” 

“Don't worry, uncle, I'm not going to the Council or anything like that.” Aeon sighed and downcast his optics. “And I don't want war. I just... I can't do anything to help people who suffered because of me, except for breaking them out of prison, maybe. But how would that help us avoid war? I have an idea, and I don't know if it will work, but...”

The door to their new temporary shelter swung open, and Barricade rushed in.

“What is...” he observed the scene in front of him for a moment. “Aid? Why did you call?” 

And after First Aid explained, Barricade just shrugged.

“Yeah, I know about this. Tell him your plan, kid.” When Aeon hesitated, Barricade added: “He'll worry less if you do.” 

So Aeon did, and although First Aid wasn't thrilled, he understood.

“Go,” he said. “We'll take care of things in your absence. Just... come back to us.” 

“I will, Uncle.” Aeon nodded solemnly. “Thank you... for understanding.” 

***

For a deca-cycle Aeon journeyed north, driving through the wilderness. He stayed away from highways connecting the cities, and here his heavy tracked altmode proved priceless, conquering any terrain with ease. He kept radio silence, even though sometimes, when he drove through the moonlit plateaus, the need to comm his family became unbearable. He had a goal, and a task to do, so he drove further and further north – until the aurora over the Well of the Allsparks filled the sky in front of him. He reached his destination: the circular mass of the Temple of the Allspark, built on the plain surrounding the sacred Well.

The Temple stood empty and locked most of the time, unless a burst from the Well filled the plain with new life. Then the priests from Iacon arrived to collect the newsparks, and carried them to the Temple to put them into protoforms. Theoretically, the Temple should also be opened when the new Prime was appointed, but there hadn't been a Prime after Optimus's death and the loss of the Matrix of Leadership. So for now the Temple stood dark and cold, a mass of silver metal, aurora's multicolored lights playing on its domed roof.

Aeon stopped at the Temple's gate and transformed to his root mode. Even though he didn't want to feel humbled, he  _did;_ the Temple embodied the mysteries of Cybertron's life-giving core and the legends of ancient Primes. Although only one Prime had his tomb here. 

Opening the heavy gate usually took combined efforts of several priests, yet Aeon's strength proved to be useful again: all his hydraulics hissed from strain when he pulled the colossal door, but it moved, opening the way into the dark maw of the Temple. Aeon gulped, bit his lip – and stepped inside.

It wasn't as dark inside after he recalibrated his optics. In fact, Aeon realized that the Temple's dome wasn't made of metal: it was made of semi-transparent glass that simply appeared metallic from the outside. Aurora dancing in the sky above filled the Temple with soft hues of many colors, painting its otherwise bare silvery walls and floor. There was a circular wall around the inner sanctum, and this is where Aeon headed, each step echoing around the Temple.

Inner sanctum had just one entrance, but no roof; the dome rose to its highest right above it. Statues of past Primes stood at the round wall, circling the Temple's very center: a large intricate sword with its tip buried in the floor.

The tomb of Optimus Prime.

Aeon bit his lip again, reminding himself that there was nothing sacrilegious or wrong in what he was doing. Optimus Prime was long dead; his body wasn't even here! And Star Saber was just a sword with a stupid legend surrounding it. Even if it was a real tomb, Aeon was doing it to save his people. He had a good reason.

Still, he hesitated as he reached for the Star Saber; but when he wrapped his fingers around the hilt, it fit perfectly. Relaxing a little, Aeon pulled...

And nothing happened.

Frowning, Aeon pulled again, and again, then took the hilt with both hands, placing his feet on the floor as stably as he could, pulled again with all his might...

The sword didn't even move.

“No!” Aeon growled, flexing his fingers and grabbing the hilt again. “This is just a stupid legend!” 

“What is a stupid legend?”

The second voice made Aeon jump. He released the sword and turned around, a thousand excuses forming in his head – and then let out a muffled gasp and staggered back, falling on his aft.

Because there, in front of him, a ghostly figure was floating above the floor. Tall, powerful, with broad shoulders and thick truck wheels on his legs, blue helm crowned with twin antennas. Aeon knew this mech, he saw him in numerous images, videos and statues.

“Optimus... Prime?” Aeon didn't recognize his own voice, so squeaky it sounded. 

The ghostly mech just inclined his head.

“This was my name once, yes. And yours, little one?” 

“Aeon,” Aeon said, dumbfounded. No one had called him “little one” for a while, especially since he was fairly sure he was taller than the Prime in front of him. 

“Welcome, Aeon.” The ghost gave him a small smile. “Can I assist you somehow? I believe you wondered about some legend?”

“I, um.” Aeon decided it was time to get back on his feet. While he was doing this, he was trying to collect his thoughts. So first of all, apparently ghosts were real. Secondly, he never imagined that a ghost of a Prime whose tomb Aeon was technically raiding would offer assistance instead of incinerating him. 

“I, I heard that only a Prime can hold the Star Saber.” He finally said. “But I thought it was just an Autobot legend, another attempt to justify their superior morals or something.” Aeon was trying to look anywhere but the ghostly Prime's face. “But I guess it turned out to be true, huh?” 

“It is true,” the ghost confirmed, and Aeon felt his spark sink. Optimus Prime tilted his head, which made him seem concerned. Weird; why would an Autobot Prime be concerned for him? 

“Why did you need the Star Saber, little one?” Optimus's ghost walked to one of the statues and sat down on its broad pedestal. 

“I... It's a long story.” Aeon shuffled his foot. He felt like he should be angry at the Prime, tell him it was his fault Aeon's people were suffering, accuse him of fighting for the oppressors... But the Prime had been very kind to him so far, and didn't seem to mind that Aeon looked like his greatest enemy. And Uncle Aid always spoke about Optimus Prime with respect.

“I believe we have some time,” Optimus said, and there was a twinkle in his optic that was suspiciously alike to humor. “Perhaps I could help?”

And, unexpectedly, Aeon found himself telling it all to the Prime: his life of deception caused by the sparkling-killing law (Optimus appeared horrified when he heard about it), the injustices his fellow second-class citizens faced, the incident at the construction site and the recent developments. Optimus listened to it all with deepest attention, shaking his head and gasping when appropriate, but otherwise not interrupting.

“And so I hoped that if I appear with the Star Saber in hand, the Autobots might listen to me after all.” Aeon's shoulders drooped. “I mean, they really believe that only a pure-sparked Prime can hold it... and it seems like they are right.”

“I'm sorry, little one,” Optimus said softly. 

“I mean... I don't want war. You know?” Aeon looked at the Prime, almost pleadingly. “I don't want to just... turn the tables and make the Autobots second-class instead. I don't want _anyone_ to be second-class, and I don't want to put Cybertron at the brink of extinction again, as most Autobots think I would. But I don't know what else to do! I can't just leave things as they are. And everyone expects something of me: the Decepticons think I will magically lead them to a glorious victory, the Autobots think I'm some monster from their war tales – and all of this because they believe I'm Megatron. But I'm not!” Aeon cast a glance at Optimus. “ _You_ don't believe I'm Megatron, do you?” 

Optimus remained silent for too long before he answered:

“You are Aeon, a child of Barricade and First Aid.” Optimus gave him a smile that made Aeon's spark flutter and swell with warmth. “I did not know Barricade, but I am sure that First Aid couldn't dream of a better child. But your spark was indeed reborn, and in its previous life it belonged to Megatron.”

“What?!” Aeon gawked at the Prime. This admission was made so simply, so casually – this was not what he expected. “How... How would you know?!”

Optimus's optics softened.

“I would recognize this spark anywhere,” he said, and suddenly Aeon didn't want to know. “But I would repeat, Aeon: it doesn't matter whom your spark belonged to before. As much as I wish I could see Megatron again, now this spark is yours, and you are your own person, with your own history and character. As a mech who knew Megatron very well, I can confirm it to you.” 

“That... doesn't make me feel better,” Aeon muttered, even though it kind of did. Optimus seemed honest, and he _did_ know Megatron.

“But it means they were right,” Aeon continued, and Optimus's optics were on him again. “Those Autobots who made that law... they were right. And all the bots who want me to lead them, they, too...” 

“They were not,” Optimus said, and Aeon snapped out of his whirlpool of self-pity. The ghost's optics were cold and determined, and suddenly Aeon saw the Autobot Commander in front of him – the leader who inspired so many. “There is no excuse for murdering innocent sparklings. And nobody's fate is sealed; it's the choices you make that build up who you are.” His voice softened. “You said you don't want war, Aeon. You said you don't want anyone to be second-class, and that you wanted to talk to the Autobots. Are you sincere about this?” 

“Yeah... I mean, yes!” Aeon raise his head. “But I... They are afraid of me, and I don't think they will listen.”

“Which is why you wanted to get the Star Saber.” Optimus rubbed his chin in a gesture too mundane for a ghost. “However, I'm afraid that wouldn't be enough. Even Star Saber is just an artifact, and, as you yourself proved, not everyone believes in that legend.”

“I've got to try.” Aeon met Optimus's gaze, unwavering. “Bots have been shot and imprisoned because they believe in me. I've got to try.” 

Optimus nodded.

“I cannot give you the Star Saber.” He stood up from the pedestal and walked towards Aeon. “However... I think I can give you something better.” 

Aeon opened his mouth to ask what it was, but words got stuck in his throat when Optimus's chest started glowing. The ghost's hands caught that light, molding it, and right before Aeon's optics it took form: a blue crystal surrounded by a golden orb.

But then Optimus pushed that orb towards him, and Aeon was blinded as blue light wrapped around him,  _pierced_ him, and he felt his chest armor move, opening up and transforming to accept the new part of him, and this time he heard Optimus's voice  _within_ him, powerful, proud and sorrowful:

_**Rise, Aeon Prime.** _

***

_And from the Temple of the Allspark he walked, Star Saber in his hand: the first Prime in millennia, chosen by Optimus Prime himself. In the guise of Megatron he came to this world, yet the Matrix glowed in his chest, for its champion was to unite Cybertron and to end the divide between its two people. And although some turned away from the Prime, unable to accept the truth, many stood beside him, allies and friends, for he brought glad tidings: in the Prime's spark all were one._

– _The Covenant of Primus, new verses_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [God Rest Ye, Merry Gentlemen (Tidings of Comfort and Joy)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BbdTIMMZHIA) by Loreena McKennitt


End file.
